Page 22 of Starside

I don’t move a single inch.

But I can’t just hide in here. I need clothes. I can’t be suspicious. I wrap another towel around my shoulders, shrouding myself. I open the door just a sliver.

Kira isn’t even looking as she tosses the clothing toward me. I close the door again and stare at two options.

A simple dress with a low neckline. I wish. I throw it to the side without a second glance.

Pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Perfect.

My throat will still be visible, so I tear the sleeves off my old shirt, then put it on beneath the new one, to keep its high collar. I turn and look at myself in the mirror. The color is nearly exact. It’s not an ideal solution, but when I have more time, I’ll do a better job of fixing the new shirt with the supplies in my bag.

Quickly, I begin to braid my hair in its usual style, adding the pins, then open the door to find Kira, hand lifted as if she was about to knock again. Her hair is tied up now too. She must have realized the liability it posed, after what happened with Waldron.

Her stomach grumbles. Mine echoes the sound.

She sighs. “Finally.” She takes my hand and all but drags me from the room. “Let’s meet the king.”

Long tables fill a room larger than the entire Nightfell square.

Swords are hung along the walls like decoration. Silver swords, enough to arm a battalion.

It’s a testament to the current peace between sides that they aren’t being used right now. It’s all thanks to the gates. Thanks to the agreement that the immortals would allow fifty of us to pass through them every fifty years to try to get some magic of our own.

I’m not the only one staring at the swords. The man next to me looks up at them with unadulterated longing. His cheekbones are visible. He doesn’t fit his new clothes; the fabric is rolled at his hips.

During the Culling and the Questral, our weapons will be the difference between life and death. Only a handful in this room have swords that compare to the ones shimmering just above, just out of reach, as if they’re mocking us.

We remain standing, crowded against the back wall. No one wants to be the first person to sit.

The thin man begins to fidget as attendants bring in silver trays of food. Through gaps in the group, I see piles of potatoes. Meats. Fish, even, which is perplexing, given how far we are from the coast.

On my other side, Kira swallows. “I don’t know which one I want more. That sword or that turkey leg.”

Her stomach growls.

“Definitely the turkey leg,” she says, just as the doors across the room swing open. There’s a moment of stillness, of anticipation.

Then in walks the king.

“He’s shorter than I thought he would be,” Kira whispers, and I dig my elbow into her arm.

She’s right, though. He is far shorter than he looks in the propaganda his guards occasionally leave throughout the villages, which I collect and use for kindling.

His skin is smooth, youthful, even, but with a waxy sheen. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He wears a crown of pure silver, with points sharp enough to draw blood.

He could be considered handsome, I suppose, but not by me. I wonder for a moment how this man has been able to keep us all under his thumb for so long.

The king of Stormside is legendary for his ability to survive countless obstacles. Stellan used to call him a roach. He’s said to be more than two hundred years old—impossible for anyone on this side … without magic.

He claims his youthfulness and unnatural lifespan is gods-given. He uses it as proof that he should rule.

Seeing him now, it all makes sense.

His people are dying, yet here he is hoarding magic.

My hands curl into fists. The gods might be to blame for keeping magic on one side, but the king has clearly kept much of what comes through for himself.

For the first time, I wonder if more challengers returned than we knew about … that never made it past the king.